firsts and seconds
by teddylupin-snape
Summary: Charlie's an artist, but falling for Draco has caused more problems than he'd originally thought. Chaco Muggle!AU


You play with color. You're bold and assertive in your art so you don't have to be in life, but sometimes you still are. Maybe a bit too often. But in life, you have to constrain yourself, sometimes, and in your art you never do. You let your paintings shout your story to the world in ways you never could. You can never find the words.

Your first exhibit goes live in a small studio in the heart of London. It's far too crowded there for anyone to notice your work. It's far too busy for you to notice anyone in particular, but you do.

There's someone, maybe a few years younger than you. He's got sleek blond hair and clothes that say he can buy the whole studio with all your art – yourself, even – included. But his eyes are guarded, like he's seen too much in his short years. He's not with anyone, and he lingers at each piece. It's as though he's truly appreciating it.

You try to watch him from a distance so he can't tell.

He comes back the next day, and you figure you've been caught.

"Are you the artist?"

You're repositioning a piece. A set of scales – old, tarnished silver – takes center-stage. On one arm, a cup of old paint water with a live daisy. The soft, white petals have soaked up pigment. On the other, a dead daisy in a cup of clean water. The former arm is weighed lower. On the latter, delicate flower petals have fallen onto the arm. You're especially proud of this piece. "I am."

"It's… really something." Your face falls, a bit, but you try to mask the expression. "In a good way, I mean. It's captivating."

"Thank you," you murmur. "Charlie. Charlie Weasley."

He takes your hand in his, shaking it. "Draco Malfoy."

Draco doesn't come back for a couple days, not until the last day of the exhibition. You're starting to pack up some of the bigger pieces, but you feel his eyes on your back. You turn around, he's mere steps behind you. "I—I got you something," he starts, shuffling around in his bag, trying to avoid eye contact. "As a sort of thank you for sharing your art." He hands you a gorgeous, leather-bound journal. You take it in grateful hands, looking to meet his eyes. He does, too. "I thought you might be able to use it for future projects."

"It's beautiful. Thank you."

He leaves without another word. Later that night, you're flipping through the empty journal, admiring the paper quality and the potential the small book holds. A small slip of paper falls out of it. His name and phone number are written on it, and you tuck it away in your pocket for later.

You're not normally one for writing. You have hundreds of small notebooks scattered around your room, all full of drawings and paintings and collages. But this one's different. Because even if the words in it aren't exactly coherent, beautifully pieced together, it's as raw and honest as you've ever gotten with just words.

It's new. And it's perfect.

X

He comes over to your flat a few days later. You offer to put the art down for the afternoon, to go out and do something. Draco shoots down the proposal, telling you to work on your art, that he wants to get to know the authentic you. And it's good he does, because you have another show opening in a few weeks and you have far too much left to finish. So he sits in the one open chair in your room and watches you work.

You're finishing a mural and asking him about his life, his dreams; he's asking you about yours. Before you know it, the sky's turned dark outside and both of you are at least a little splattered with paint and it's refreshing to see his hair messed up just a bit. You're transfixed by his grey eyes and his sharp jawline and then his arms are wrapped around you. His lips find yours. He runs his fingers through your read hair. You stumble back a couple steps before pushing back into him, holding him tight. The terrible _squelch_ of wet paint against your back stops you in your tracks. Draco's looking back at you, eyes wide. " _Fuck_."

Part of you hopes that didn't really happen. You know your shirt is now a work of art, the violet and scarlet and black of your mural creating its mirror. The original is ruined, and it's too late now to do anything about it. "Fuck it." You pull Draco in close again, twisting about so he's backed up against the painted canvas, pushing him against the wall and kissing him with a passion that's usually directed at your art. He moans, and you bite his lip hard. You don't want to open your eyes. You don't want to see months of hard work ruined. So you kiss him long and rough and slow until you can't anymore.

X

The days go by, and Draco leaves message after message on your voicemail, all unanswered. You turn up your music as loud as it will go. You ignore the banging on the walls by your neighbors to keep it down, and direct your every emotion to your art. For a week, everything you paint is red.

The journal he bought you sits in the corner, its edges singed and charred. It's not the only thing you took your anger out on. Half of your sketchbooks, a handful of your bigger paintings, the whole façade of your mural, they'd all gone up in flames. You found peace in the destruction. It was cathartic.

The next week, you don't make any art at all. It's the first time that's happened in far too long. You can't remember the last time you went so long without creating anything. You throw your favorite brushes and pencils on the highest shelf in your flat. The only way you can reach them is by standing on a chair, and honestly, you can't bring yourself to do that yet. Maybe taking some time away from everything will be good. Maybe it'll help in the long run.

Right now, it just hurts. You just sit against the wall of your room, digging your nails into the dark mahogany flooring until your hands bleed.

That night, you call the studio that's hosting your next exhibit. You cancel the event.

X

Your show was meant to be the next day, and you find yourself desperate to make something again, desperate to get rid of these emotions. You've been fighting them for too long. You dig out your least favorite brush. The one that you put back in the case after the first time you used it, since it never does what you want it to do. It splotches the paint and sheds its bristles and the handle is uncomfortable. You take out the near-full pot of yellow paint. You hardly use it. It never feels right. But it does now. And you paint all in yellow, trying to make the so-called happy color influence your emotions. It's not enough.

You run the voicemail on your phone, playing every message Draco's left you. They get more and more desperate as time goes on. Eventually, they get shorter. "Sorry, don't know why I bother," "Call me back… if you want to," "I need to tell you something," "Charlie, please," "I'm sorry."

Each word warrants another brushstroke. You mix in red, blue, green, black. The canvas is littered with colors that only belong at the bottom of a polluted lake. You can't remember the last time a painting has so perfectly captured your intentions.

You hear a knock at the door. Everything inside of you wants to ignore it, but you hear that pleading in person and you can't help yourself.

"I don't want to talk to you," you huff, but you step aside to let him anyway.

"Then don't talk. But pack up your best pieces, I got you a gig."

You stop in your tracks, front door still open wide. Draco's already in your studio, scoping out your new works. "What?"

"If you would've answered your phone, you'd know. But this one's in a real museum and the set-up starts in an hour. Better hurry." You hear the smirk in his voice before you see it on his face. But as you walk into the room, his eyes are wide, his mouth agape.

He composes himself as you enter the room. "I'm sorry I ruined your mural."

"I know."

"I never meant for this to happen."

"I know."

A pause. "It looks stunning."

"I know.

X

The exhibit is packed. This time, all these people are here for you, for your art. You turn to Draco beside you, then survey the room. "So, which's your favorite?"

"Nothing beats a first kiss," he says with a smirk, gesturing to the mural you finished together.

"What about a second?"

 **A/N:**

 **WC: Disney: S3 Write about someone letting go of a negative emotion; Book Club: Aiko (artist, journal, dream); Showtime: 1. Charlie Weasley; Amber's Attic: 12. Write about two people having a falling out; Count Your Buttons: O3. Scales; Lyric Alley: 7. Put me on the shelf; discipline myself; Sophie's Shelf: 10. Write about someone journaling or writing in a diary; Lo's Lowdown: C8. (trait) Redhead. Seasonal: DOTY June 19: Write about someone being kissed; Shay's Musical Challenge: 42. Write about someone feeling guilty; Summer Prompts: (Dialogue) "Nothing beats a first kiss;" Colors: Mahogany; Fire Element: (word) Charred; Gryffindor-Themed Prompts: C: Charlie Weasley, T: Bold, OP: (color) Scarlet; Summer Astronomy Prompts: (emotion) Anger; Fortnightly: Best Friend's Day (11. "I never meant for this to happen," (emotion) Sadness); Dragon-Breeding: wc. 1511; Fanfiction Writing Month: wc. 1511; Funfair: Southern (Hedge maze: violet); Northern (Balloon Wall: 4. Delicate); Eastern (Penny Slot: 1. Charlie Weasley; 22. Draco Malfoy; 69. Flower)**


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